


Kaon Folk Songs

by Capricorn_Stellium



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, MegaRod Week, MegaRod Week 2020, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capricorn_Stellium/pseuds/Capricorn_Stellium
Summary: Rodimus and Megatron go on a brief supply run surface excursion on Valdarian-4, which doesn't go as planned.It had been a while since he'd thought about his time in the mines.[Day One of MegaRod Week 2020, Prompt: Poetry]
Relationships: Megatron/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29
Collections: Megarod Week





	Kaon Folk Songs

**Author's Note:**

> Please Note: There is a very brief but somewhat graphic description of the death of a non-main character towards the end of the story. If this bothers you, please feel free to skip directly to Megatron's poem at the end; I have marked the post-violence segment with a dash paragraph break, which is towards the end of the story. 
> 
> There are also brief instances of PTSD like behaviour from Megatron in response to being in an industrial environment. If this is potentially harmful for you, again, please skip to the dashed paragraph break towards the end of the story, which should skip you right to the relevant poem section.

It had been a while since he'd thought about his time spent in the mines. 

—

The pick-up was planned for a relatively out of the way planet, Valdarian-4, largely inhabited by organics but with a lingering reputation from the war as being friendly to open trade. 

While their initial concerns on board the Lost Light had been mostly around how they might be received (or perceived) by the native lifeforms, especially with such a relatively small pick-up compared to the massive orders that were needed while conflict had still been ongoing (and therefore the much smaller pay out for the locals), they ended up faced with another situation entirely upon landing at the indicated port. 

It was odd to Megatron, the thought of organics at war. With how delicate most other species were in comparison to Cybertronians, it was strange to think that such sensitive beings with already shorter than average lives would decide to have at each other for whatever reasons… Especially these particular organics, who were very short (like most organics) but also very thin, leaving little to nothing on them naturally protecting any vital components. They didn’t seem built for conflict, with admittedly beautiful opalescent skin that lacked any toughness at all, and oddly unique two-digit hands lacking in joints that required the use of specific tools and weapons made only by their own people for their specific needs. 

Surely that limited their potential for re-supply significantly, as more industrial areas were surely affected and workers were lost to the war efforts? As if that were the only problem this planet was facing, but it was hard for Megatron to abandon some of his wartime thinking; He had often lost recharge cycles thinking about logistics back when… Well, back then. 

He had kept his commentary to himself while he had embarked with the away team, however briefly it had been; He had walked out only slightly behind Rodimus once the Lost Light was cleared for excursion at the shipping dock, and had seen the devastated look on his face once it became evident that this once peaceful trading planet had now fallen into the same cycles of violence that had plagued their own for so long. He hardly wanted to upset things further, nor did he feel particularly in the mood to be accused of anti-organic attitudes. He liked to think he was doing better in that regard; Rung had said so at one of his recent appointments, anyway. 

There were some rapid re-calculations done off the cuff, once they realised what was going on. Rodimus no longer wanted to take any more than was absolutely needed from a people at war even though the deal had been arranged ahead of time, so he had asked Drift to stay behind and help Ultra Magnus deal with local port authorities; Apparently the Tyrest Accords didn’t always fit smoothly within interplanetary law, although Megatron questioned leaving a formerly high profile criminal behind to deal with local enforcers— Until he realised nearly everyone on the Lost Light could be held somewhere for some kind of offence. Very much including himself.

While those two managed things at the port, he was to go with Rodimus and meet their contact at a local forge and factory, for some much needed raw material for various purposes from ship maintenance to lab experimentation; They had a list. 

Megatron wasn’t looking forward to visiting any industrial site in particular, but as he was likely the mech with the most experience in raw materials assessment owing to his time in the mines, he agreed to the adjusted plan. 

It didn’t take long to reach the factory site; A large warehouse and sorting yard clearly marked the area as the place they were looking for, with other vaguely greyish-blue looming facilities peppered around past that in contrast with the finely detailed yellow and pink shimmering designs the organics seemed to favour elsewhere. The shimmering buildings tended to be smaller, more flitting for the scale the local organics fit best, but it was possible that this and other industrial sites had been expanded for the sake of wartime production and less care was taken in their re-design. Aesthetics were always an early casualty of war, either out of necessity or for sake of ease.

“Who are we looking for, Megs?” Rodimus was quieter than usual, put off by the state of the world around them. He was sick of war, and they all knew what these people were in for; It seemed to be relatively early in their conflict. Small things here and there that indicated these people were inexperienced fighters, weren’t yet aware of how disastrous the situation could or would be. It saddened Rodimus, to think that where one war ended, another inevitably began. 

Megatron knew that Rodimus had the name of the individual they were supposed to meet to discuss their order with, but it was Megatron who knew how to identify those in charge in places like this. It seemed nearly universal, no matter the planet or people. “Most likely, we’re looking for a pit boss type figure, a factory manager or site owner, perhaps. Anyone higher than that is never on site, and anyone lower than that is doing actual work.” He couldn’t help but let some bitterness enter his voice; Old pains still ached centuries later. 

He wanted to get in and out. Waving Rodimus forward, he started to walk towards the factory, surveying the area. 

It was unavoidable that he would have some trouble; Rodimus quickly caught up to Megatron’s longer strides, sending out a quick EM pulse to test the waters. Waves of reassurance, warmth, and Rodimus’ presence washed over Megatron, and some tension bled from the larger mech’s broad shoulders. 

“I appreciate your kindness, Rodimus, but I can conduct myself professionally regardless of any personal distress.” 

Rodimus looked him in the optics in a rare moment of semi-seriousness. “I’m sure you can. But you just admitted you’re distressed. I know this must be rough… We’ll get out of here as soon as we have what we need. I would have looked for supplies elsewhere if I had any idea this was going to be like this.” 

Megatron huffed; It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him quite like this. “It isn’t your fault. Nobody is out here; They may be inside—“

There was some noise behind them; Both of them whipped around, only to see a small group of workers staring at them in wonderment. 

An especially small one stepped forward, stopped immediately by another one grabbing their shoulders likely out of fear that the “giant robots” might crush them. It was a sentiment often encountered by Cybertronians on organic planets. 

Rodimus spoke first, quick as the speedster frame he is. “Hey, I’m Rodimus! We aren’t going to hurt you. We’re—“ 

“Are you with Vanadus? Have you answered our prayers?” The wide, somewhat off-putting circular eyes of the organic were heartbreaking; The entire species had the same green coloured lenses, but these seemed even larger set in smaller, more strained features. Either a sign of wartime rations or particularly harsh industrial conditions, and Rodimus didn’t like either. He could feel Megatron tense beside him.

Prayers… Some kind of local Primus figure? He had an idea. Over internal comms, Rodimus messaged Megatron. “I’m going to send a quick message to Drift. It seems this is a religious thing, I don’t want to make any mistakes here. Keep them engaged, but be careful.” 

Megatron nodded; It seemed this impressed the locals, somehow.

“Are you a mind-reader? You’re Vanadus, aren’t you!” The small brave one spoke up again, trepidation turning to joy in their voice. They all began to get excited, clear relief washing over the small group, perhaps twelve of them total. It seemed they were too tired to start dancing, although it seemed as though they would if they could. Megatron knew what that level of exhaustion was like; He found himself feeling for these small organic workers. Something he never would have thought himself capable of. Briefly, he was proud of himself. 

Before he could respond, another organic chimed in, this one with some kind of satchel holding bundles of small stakes in it slung over their shoulder. “Of course it’s Vanadus, the texts always describe him as being made of the same stone that makes the mountains, eyes like the red clay that makes the river beds!” The organics began to clamour amongst themselves with more fervour, a few began taking cautious steps towards him, making him afraid to move lest he hit any of them by accident. 

This was quickly escalating; Megatron looked to Rodimus for help, but Rodimus was busy holding back laughter. After a brief harsh glare, Rodimus messaged him over internal comms once more, not wishing to exacerbate things further. “Drift got back to me; He’s heard of Vanadus before, although there isn’t a lot of information on the belief systems in this sector of space. Apparently he’s seen as a benevolent God figure, part of the creation mythos of this planet. They pray to him to be lifted out of struggle or other troubles, as he is the ‘Maker of the World’s Surface', and there’s a lot of cultural connections between him and ideas of spirit, strength, and restoration, or something. Drift got excited and I didn’t pay a lot of attention after that. Seems to be a good thing, although we shouldn’t lead them on.” 

Megatron replied. “Avoiding a major theological crisis would be good, yes. Can you help? We still need to find our supply organiser here.” 

The organics watched with fascination; They didn’t seem to understand the concept of internal comms, and were watching both his and Rodimus’ physical expressions which accompanied their unheard conversation. 

They both turned to face the organics more directly, at which point they froze solid. Out of fear or respect, Megatron couldn’t tell. Rodimus once again stepped up, encouraging the closer organics to step back slightly. 

“Unfortunately, there’s been a misunderstanding. My friend here is not your deity, and I am—“ 

“Of course he is! You are his Messenger. You have come back from the stars in our time of need. We have prayed for you.” 

Uh-oh. Rodimus attempted some damage control. “Ah, what makes you think that?” 

The organics laughed, a small jingling sound not unlike that of bells. It was somewhat jarring, to hear it coming from such frail looking, dirty, tired organics.

“Because you are… you! You’re so big and clean and strong. You aren’t like anyone or anything here. You are like how the stories go. And we prayed for you, so we know you have come.” The confidence with which this organic spoke was inspiring; They really believed. It reminded Rodimus of Drift and his complete faith in Primus.

Sometimes Rodimus wished he could be that faithful. 

Back to internal comms, then. “Megatron, this isn’t working, they’re not going to listen. Any ideas?” 

“We may not be able to shake their belief. It’s similar to some of the folk practices in the mines and various industrial communities on Cybertron before the war; People that are desperate or have hard lives often have nothing but their faith. It is impossible to break such devotion, when your spark depends on it day after day to survive.” Megatron ex-vented, slightly alarming some of the closer organics, none of whom were privy to their conversation. “Perhaps one of them knows where our contact is; We may be able to distract them.”

Hmm. A good idea! “Sounds solid to me. Let’s give it a go.”  
Rodimus once again addressed the group; Megatron wasn’t quite comfortable engaging with organics one-on-one yet. Understandable, considering… A lot of things. 

“Okay, we are here to pick up some supples. Our contact goes by Aldin. Can any of you point us to where this person might be?” 

One of the organics towards the back of the group waved a data pad. “I… I can bring him this way, Messenger.” 

Rodimus smiled wide; Not always a sign of friendliness on every planet, but he found it worked often enough to be worth the risk. “Great! Thank you.” 

Megatron noted how the mention of the name had stirred up some discomfort among the organics, who were happy right up until then. It seemed this Aldin individual was at best not very popular. At worst… He was familiar with site bosses. He didn’t like them. Not at all. 

While they waited, Megatron monitored the more anxious, quiet behaviour of the workers, while Rodimus attempted to lighten the mood by performing a small flame trick with his digits, flicking a small flame back and forth. At first, the organics were startled, but eventually were enamoured; Megatron believed it was only fuelling their belief that they were Gods of some kind, but hesitated to say anything as he approved of anything that would give the workers some reprieve despite his better judgement. 

It ultimately wasn’t all that long before Aldin, their contact, had finally arrived. 

He seemed rather robust for a Valdarian; While all the staff on this site wore the same blue uniform resembling somewhat streamlined boiler suits, Aldrin’s skin looked healthier with more strength behind it. The thin, short frames of this particular organic species didn’t seem to allow for a lot of muscle in general, but Aldin was likely considered physically more capable than many of his fellows.

At first he didn’t seem to notice them despite their giant stature compared to all else around them, too caught up in a data pad while simultaneously shouting at random workers to pay attention without ever looking up, which made Megatron immediately suspicious of him. The workers they had met so far seemed overworked and in somewhat poor condition; He didn’t like dealing with anyone that reminded him of the pit bosses of his youth. Rodimus seemed similarly put off, although not quite as severely so. 

“Excuse me, are you Aldin?” Rodimus did his best to put on his Diplomatic Voice. 

Immediately, the organic snapped his head around to look for who was calling him. “Oh! Cybertronians! Haven’t seen hardly any of you in a good while. We’ve got our own situation going on now… Anyway, yes, let me pull up your inventory request. We can get it ready to go for you, loading palettes or boxes if you prefer.” 

Both Rodimus and Megatron were uncomfortable with the idea of the small organic workers having to handle such heavy materials in general, let alone for the sake of their need. Rodimus spoke up, “Actually, we can do a few runs and just load things into my alt-mode, Megatron here is good at heavy lifting and I’m pretty fast. Shouldn’t take long at all, if that’s alright.” 

Megatron was loathe to be volunteered for any kind of manual labour, especially in a place like this, but his desire to give the workers a break at least on this one job won out. “I’m fine with loading and moving things, as Rodimus has stated.” 

Aldin was already looking back at his data pad, checking some things off on the display here and there. “Yes, yes, alright! Three palettes in total, balanced by weight. If there’s an issue with fitting anything space-wise, they can be cut open and loaded in item by item. The first palette is probably the heaviest, ship repair materials, sheet metals, and some beam supports as ordered.” 

A small truck-like vehicle was already seen approaching; It must have been called via the data pad. Sure enough, it looked to be their order. The first part of it, anyway. So far, so good. 

As Aldin was turning to go, he finally noticed the small crowd of workers. His entire demeanour changed, confident and clearly unafraid of any repercussions, as he viciously started shouting at the group that had gathered earlier. “What are you doing here? Halun, you’re in charge of this shift, you know we’re behind on ore processing! Your team is supposed to be in the colliery right now.” 

At the mention of ore processing, Megatron tensed visibly, and one of his frequent headaches started to build behind his helm. Rodimus picked up on the well-hidden but not imperceptible distress in Megatron’s EM field, concern flashing across his faceplate as he stepped a bit closer. The organics, aside from Aldin, began to look even more worried. 

Over internal comms, Rodimus sent a short message. “I know you’re not okay. We’ll get out of here ASAP, don’t worry about it, and don’t argue with me. Our supply needs aren’t dire yet, we can find somewhere else. I can come up with an excuse.” 

Seeing their perceived deity figure seemingly staggered by Aldin’s yelling, one of them stepped forward. It was the one with the satchel. Halun.

“We were distracted somewhat by the appearance of Vanadus and his Messenger—“ 

A sharp laugh interrupted him. 

“There is no Vanadus. Or any Messenger. Why do you believe in those old, meaningless stories? These two are Cybertronians! I know you’re all younger than the old guard, but these ‘bots used to come to us for supplies all the time. Used to see tons of them milling around, all beat up. They’re not Gods, they’re fancy robots.” 

Between the offensive statement towards them and the sheer cruelty with which Aldin slapped down the worker, Megatron had heard enough. 

“Quiet!” 

Somewhere in the background, the beeping of the first palette being lowered from the vehicle had stopped, and all movement around them seemed to cease. He had startled them all into attention, even Aldin, who had the audacity to not look the slightest bit afraid. 

“Oh please, I remember when your people used to be here all the time. You can’t afford to lose out on a supply contact with a conflict going on, you won’t risk facing charges on this planet and missing out on whatever you need from us in the future.” 

Rodimus tried to grab Megatron’s arm, to no avail as he stepped forward to loom over Aldin. 

“You are mistaken. Our war has ended. Your war has just begun. If anything, you should be asking us for help— And we would deny you. We are not robots. We are Cybertronians, a proud and unique people who have survived centuries and seen more than you can imagine. I owe you nothing. Not respect, or shanix, or time. And these people, these workers, deserve to live decent lives, away from this place and the likes of you.” 

He leaned over, making a show of their size disparity. “If you abuse them again while I am here to see it, I will ensure they will never be abused again. A worker is a brother, a sister, a comrade. And you treat them like slaves— Because no matter your position or pay grade, you are trapped here as well, on a planet riding a descent into chaos. Pathetic.” 

He spit a small stream of coolant fluid, which pooled in a noxious puddle dangerously close to where Aldin stood. 

Rodimus finally managed to grab his shoulder and pull him back a bit, which Aldin used as his opportunity to stand there and sputter, now enraged himself. 

It seemed Megatron’s small speech had inspired the workers, who believed him to be some deity of strength; Several of them moved behind Halun, to support him where he had been called forward. 

Aldin stopped shaking, and watched the workers, shocked. But quickly, his shock returned to an even more aggressive rage. “No! You all don’t get to be confident now. Everyone is needed for the war effort. Everyone needs to contribute.“ 

The smallest one, who Megatron firmly now believed to be among the bravest workers, shouted back. “No! Our Gods have come to help us. Vanadus has put you in your place. There is a difference between contributing, and being beaten down and guilted into participating in a system designed to keep you tired. We see the war for what it is. And I don’t want to produce materials for warships, I don’t want to make weapons that will be used against our own people or anyone else. I’m tired. We’re all tired.” 

Megatron was impressed. He was finding himself proud of this small one, who clearly had only needed some encouragement to speak. 

“I quit. I know I can’t quit, but I quit. Anyone who is with me, walk with me. This is over.” He turned, briefly looking Megatron in the optics. The fire he saw in the organic’s eyes made him feel some hope for the people of this planet yet. 

As they all began to walk away, abandoning the job, Megatron could hardly contain his satisfied EM field while Rodimus was far more tense. This wasn’t resolved. Where would those workers go? How would they fare? This was a planet under wartime protocols; Would they be hunted down for leaving their posts? 

Megatron had thought of the same things, but he was far more familiar with the desperation of the working classes. People, any people, on any planet, could only be treated so poorly in such poor conditions with so much stress for so long before any alternative looked better than the present situation. If they maintained their solidarity, stuck by each other and used their skills for their own good, if they kept this level of energy and intent, they would be successful. Like he had been, when he fled the mines for the gladiatorial arenas, trading equipment manuals for booklets of his own make and distribution… He wanted to believe his highest points, his best successes, his most nostalgic moments from before he fell from righteousness, could apply to these people. 

And that moment of his own belief blinded him to the situation unfolding to his side; Aldin had drawn a laser pistol. 

Rodimus spotted it only nanocicks after Megatron, as he was on Megatron’s opposite side, but neither of them could have reacted fast enough. 

It seemed industrial deserters were to be shot. Or perhaps Aldin had his own motivations, now. It hardly mattered. 

The one with the bag, Halun, had been among the last to turn and walk away; His position in the rear of the group resulted in a clear shot being blown through his back, right beneath his right shoulder blade, thick silver-looking fluid oozing from the wound and staining his work suit a dark shimmering colour like the rainbow shine on the surface of an oil spill. 

At the sight of the limp organic worker on the ground, satchel spilled and the contents still rolling around his body, Megatron spiralled into a rage. “You will not touch them!” The entire group had frozen, and Rodimus immediately put himself between Aldin and the rest of the workers, crouching to provide better cover and ushering them all behind him. A laser pistol like that would just leave a scorch on his armour, but it was clearly a fatal injury for these beings. 

Roaring, he thundered forward in a few short steps, his energy having no outlet. Easily tearing Aldin from where he stood, Megatron made short work of him by holding his body in one servo, and gripping his head between two digits, twisting sharply in opposite directions. 

Nearly decapitated, the bloodied and warped corpse hit the ground, making a mildly wet thud. 

Rodimus was off to the side, still low to the ground. He had corralled and shielded the workers from having to witness the murder, using his body as a wall around them. He resembled a statue, oddly out of place sat on the ground with his legs crossed and Valdarian workers behind him; A few had been picked up and placed in his lap. Some had now managed to scale his armour, standing on his legs, unafraid of falling in their shock. 

Megatron, for all his rage, was stopped cold by the look of sorrow on Rodimus’ faceplate. 

Instantly, he tried to calm himself. It was difficult. But he regained his composure gradually, wiping small dashes of organic fluid from his servos. 

He addressed the organics tucked away by Rodimus. 

“You are free to leave here if you so choose. They will find out and replace him soon; This is your opportunity. I will dispose of him. You may rebury him according to your beliefs or practices if it is your wish to do so. And I will assist with the care of your friend’s remains if need be. I am sorry.” 

The smallest organic stepped out from somewhere behind Rodimus, walking forward, eyes pointedly towards the ground in an effort to avoid looking at either Megatron or the crumpled bodies lying nearby. “…Yes. Please help us bury Halun. He was a good friend. A good worker. He would be happy that at least his death brought about our freedom. We will all go from here, I think.” The other organics, somber, were minimally responsive but nobody resisted the idea. 

Megatron ex-vented. “I will assist you however I can.” He could feel Rodimus’ gaze on him. 

The same organic, whose name they never learned, spoke up one last time. “I still believe you to be Vanadus. You have freed us.” 

Megatron paused, and kneeled in front of the small group, an ineffective attempt to be more on their level. His servos and struts felt heavier than they were.

“Remember that you are worth more than this. You are all worth more than this. Do not let your loss defeat you. Seek justice for your friend by seeking better lives. It is your right as sentient beings to exist without undue suffering.” He thought for a moment. “As much as you believe in me, I believe in you.” 

The Valdarians took this as an acknowledgement of divinity; Rodimus would have chastised him a bit for playing into it, especially given how Megatron has reacted to having such social power in the past, but this felt different. Megatron wasn’t manipulating these people, this was no delusion of grandeur, there was no victory to be won here; He was defeated. He was giving in to their beliefs, to encourage them, to give them hope in a dark moment. It made Rodimus strangely proud. 

The organics around them began to come further out from behind Rodimus, some of them sliding down his leg armour plating to be caught by their friends; The noise had attracted others, who were slowly approaching from the surrounding industrial structures. The one with the data pad must have given them some details; They didn’t seem as alarmed as they perhaps should have been, and Megatron knew well how quickly news spread in these kinds of places. 

All of them raised their arms up, looking towards Megatron, and began to emit a soft glow from their palms. It seems these organics had some bioluminescent capabilities; Rodimus made a note to tell Ratchet about it later, if he would be interested. Or maybe he’d tell Drift to pass it along. 

They began a low hum, some kind of prayer in a language their translators weren’t quite able to catch. Probably an older, archaic form of the speech forms on this planet. It couldn’t have lasted long, but the effect was almost hypnotic; Megatron exhibited incredible patience in being the focus of such intense attention, but Rodimus supposed Megatron was quite used to it after all these centuries. 

After they had finished their prayer, they focused their hands out in front of them, towards where Halun’s body was laid out where he had fallen. A dim glow intensified over the body, some kind of ritual display of respect, or perhaps love for a good friend. It gradually ebbed; It seemed tiring for them to produce this bioluminescent effect. 

Once they seemed finished, Megatron stood, slowly and with a mild sway. Some mud caught in his knee joints, packing into the seams between his armour plates. He looked somehow old in that moment, although Rodimus caught a faint sad smile across his faceplate. It seemed Megatron was happy to inspire workers on another world, one way or another, despite how poorly things had gone. Class solidarity, no matter what. Even with organics. He had come a long way, despite… Some potential for relapse. 

He turned to the organics a final time. “Let this give you resolve. Let this prepare you for darker times in the future, and give you the determination to seek out your lost light.”

Megatron reached out over internal comms. “Rodimus, let’s go once we help prepare the bodies. Before local authorities arrive, ideally.” 

“Okay.” 

—

They made it back to the Lost Light where it was docked in silence, and with minimal supplies. They only brought back the first palette which had been brought out before things kicked off; It would have to do, for now. 

What they had managed to pick up was dropped off in the cargo bay, before they proceeded quietly to the command bridge to check in. 

“I don’t blame you, Megatron. You’re not in trouble. I’m not reporting this to Ultra Magnus or anything, although yes, I know I should. It’s my fault for putting you in that situation and for not cancelling the supply pick-up when it became obvious that the Valdarians aren’t exactly up to guests at the moment. And I know you’ll argue that it’s not my fault and that you’ve set yourself back and, you know what, whatever. Sometimes missions don’t go the way they’re supposed to. Not every plan is a winner. I’m tired. You’re tired. Everyone is tired except for Ultra Magnus, who apparently loves Valdarian Port Authority import and export regulations. We can talk this out later, preferably in Swerve’s, using unnecessarily heavily coded speech while awkwardly sober in a corner booth like the losers we are.” 

Rodimus ex-vented. “And I’m not gonna tell Rung, either. That’s between you and him, but I trust you’ll bring it up yourself.” 

“…Fair.” It was hard to argue with any of that, except for one thing. “We’re not losers, Rodimus. I think I may have been far too successful in my life, and I’d say that as a Captain, you’re doing fairly well yourself. And of course, you saved the lives of those workers, this wasn’t a complete loss. Not that long ago, if we had worked together back then, I would have made you far better than a Captain for that.” 

“Far better than a Captain, huh? Like a Prime?” He tapped his spark cover with both index digits, wearing a goofy smile that didn’t quite reach his optics.

“Better than a Prime.” 

Rodimus didn’t seem to know what to say to that. For once, the onus was on Megatron to continue the conversation.

He ex-vented. “You are right in that we are both tired. I take it Drift is also back?” 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, he’s with Mags, they’re in his office figuring out what we still need to pick up somewhere else now. I should check in with them before we all hit recharge.” 

“Then I will see you in a few cycles; I’ll be in my hab suite for the rest of the evening if you need me.” 

“Sure.” 

Nearly turning around to give a more formal goodbye, he opted not to at the last moment, instead marking himself off the command shift rota before heading out into the wide hallways of the Lost Light’s habitation deck.

He was finally off duty. 

Reaching the door of his hab suite, he was looking forward to recharge for once. 

It had been a while since he'd thought about his time in the mines.

It had also been a while since he’d directly killed someone. 

He thought of the smallest organic, the bravest one he’d seen on that planet. Megatron realised that he’d never gotten his name, and recalled a time when he himself had no designation. 

Megatron realised how grateful he was for Rodimus’ presence on the brief excursion; When it counted, the mech knew when to hold back. And he appreciated that Rodimus respected his privacy and boundaries; Not many trusted him enough to give him that. Thinking on it, Megatron realised that Rodimus for all his tomfoolery and occasional bluster was quite insightful. Kind. He didn’t know if he deserved that kindness, but he would accept it. He was too tired to dwell further on his relationship with the Captain; It would have to wait until after recharge. 

Locking the door behind him, he ex-vented and sat on his berth, reaching for his personal data pad. If he was going to visit the past, he might as well write. It was the only thing that got him through the mines back then.

He had been afraid to write for the longest time; The thought of what his articles and speeches had eventually led to all those centuries ago would echo in his processor until it ceased to function. But he liked writing. It brought out what he felt was the purest, most honest elements of his spark. Even the parts he didn’t acknowledge himself. 

As his thoughts wandered, he remembered the songs that were sung in the mines on Cybertron, Kaon folk songs designed to tell stories, to help workers keep pace, to keep spirits up during the hardest and most gruelling shifts, to echo off the walls of a freshly dug chamber as a way of testing its surface stability with the vibration of their shared vocalisers. One of the rare recreational habits they were allowed to keep, as a result of its dual functionality. 

Picking up a stylus, he opened up a fresh window and began to type. He reflected on the past, as well as the promised future. 

In the place I come from, in the dark, there was music there.

The rattle of our frames shook beneath the might  
Of drills and long arduous nights in which we could hardly think  
For all the crystal shards and rock fragments against our helms  
And the fatigue as our energon dripped slowly from fractures and leaks

The strain of the work bore down even on the mighty  
With struts and cables bent and torn  
And the endless noise of pained groans and worn machinery echoed through endless tunnels  
Drowning out any thoughts or feelings other than the drive of a purpose  
That we all knew was aimless. 

One shaft completed is another shaft drilled  
To be started and finished, only to begin the same again  
For all our centuries long lifespans were worth  
And each day wrested more hope from our sparks  
As the deeper the mines expanded,  
The further from that sparse light we became  
And it was easy to absorb myself in a meditation  
Born of desperation and nothing else in sight  
The only sounds and sensations that of dust and the rain of leaking pipes. 

I remember working on an upper chamber  
During the transport of ore and crystals to the surface lift  
Through which I could see a rare glimpse of sky  
But of course it was the night shift  
And no light came through  
Save for headlamps and the harsh light baton of the overseer  
Soon, after long, I felt neither hope nor fear 

The ship on which we sail now, the Lost Light  
I find it an ill-fitting moniker  
As I have felt and known what it is like  
To live without even the mild glow of the faintest star

Yet here amongst the cosmos  
Where stars are all around us for as far as can be seen  
And instead of the oppressive cliffs carved by thousands of tired, worn hands  
Instead of sparkless optics and dragging, battered limbs  
Instead of the drilling noises and echoed shouts of pit bosses  
And the drag and groans of weary working mechs 

I see the fire in you and it's endless warmth  
Such a contrast to the cold air so far below the surface of a planetary crust  
And when you sing with the crew  
On too-long nights in Swerve’s with endless high grade on tap, at will, no raw shards in sight  
No filth or hunger exists here  
Standing on a table with neon bulbs, casting colours instead of shadows  
Upon your smiling, beaming face  
In and of itself a source of purest light

With music blaring from speakers in seemingly every surface  
Sending vibrations through my frame that should remind me of darker times  
In lower places, the violent shake of a jackhammer chiselling out the walls of adits far below  
Where I grew into they grey heart that was forged for me,  
Fuelled only by my righteous rage and a need for there to be something, anything more  
I am instead reminded, albeit so very late, that there is repentance  
In the acts of your kindness  
It is possible for joy to exist in the same universe as such suffering  
And there is light to be found in love.


End file.
